Knowing I Am Safe
by SiriuslyBadWolf
Summary: Sherlock and Molly are both lonely. Both socially awkward. Both seeking safety.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I dont own Sherlock **

They were in the lab, Sherlock peering into a microscope at a Petri dish and Molly pretending to- trying to- work while sneaking sideways glances at him.

All had been quiet for awhile, as in Sherlock didn't have much to keep him busy. And Molly had no Tom anymore to relieve her from her monotonous life of returning home to her cat, Toby, to watch television. Sherlock had no John, though they saw each other, quite infrequently, on their own schedules.

It wasn't the same for Sherlock. Though he never complained of the emptiness of 221B-he might even claim the lack of John's presence was beneficial for lack of distraction- however, that was just it. There was no distraction. And Molly often wondered if, in-between cases, Sherlock just went home to an empty flat to watch television too.

Though she doubted it, he'd probably be poking brains or doing some mad experiments-always keeping himself busy.

The air was thick in the lab, a heavy silence- which was becoming a rare occurrence between them. They'd become sort of mates, Molly liked to think. Sherlock said funny things sometimes, things she imagined he'd say to John if he were there. She'd laugh, and she'd try to say things that were remotely funny and, once, Sherlock, actually laughed. She noticed the less she tried, the funnier she seemed to be.

She made it a mental note. Because even though she tried and tried to forget her feelings for Sherlock, they resurfaced every time she saw him. At least, now, however, she didn't stammer and blush like an idiot and he didn't trick her into allowing him access to the morgue.

"Molly, just ask me if you want to ask me." Sherlock's baritone voice disrupted the silence, surprising Molly so much she almost dropped her pen.

"Oh-uh..."

Sherlock looked at her expectantly,"Hm?"

"You must already know the question, though. Why don't you just answer?"

"It'll be a learning experience, Molly. Social skills."

Molly scoffed, "Social skills from a sociopath?"

He smirked, "Who else do you have to teach you?" And immediately, he thought that was not good. He looked up at her face, checking for harm done.

He saw none.

She just rolled her eyes, "Oh, shut up." He looked at her expectantly again.

"Well?"

"There's this science lecture tonight I was invited to and you can bring a tag-along. Would you be interested in being my... tag-along?"

"I don't do well with lectures."

"But, Sherlock! You told me to ask you, you git!" she said, hitting him on the shoulder with her clipboard.

"Fine, I'll go," he said with a small smile.

* * *

They were in a cab to the lecture. He had gotten a cab to her flat, where he waited outside. On the drive there, Sherlock hoped she didn't think it was a date then he saw she wasn't dressed up at all in jeans, a jumper, and trainers and felt almost disappointed. He didn't quite get the emotion, and shook it off. He didn't like not getting things.

Walking through the doors, Molly said, "If you get bored, please don't shoot the walls."

Sherlock grimaced, "Does John rattle off a romanticized tale of every thing I do?"

"I shot the wall in my flat with an arrow when I was bored once."

Sherlock looked down at her in surprise, "You're serious?"

She smiled sheepishly and shrugged, "I don't do lectures either."

They walked home rather than a cab- their legs were asleep, it was a nice night, they were short of change- there was many reasons.

They were laughing as they strolled, releasing the hardly contained amusement they had during the whole lecture. One speaker kept talking, thinking his microphone was off. Another was just an idiot, whose theories had Sherlock cackling. Another, while trying to bring up a PowerPoint, instead brought up a sex cam.

"The whole thing was a joke!" she laughed. "I feel as if I've just seen a comedy!"

"I think the majority of the guy's shirt was an armpit sweat stain," he said laughing.

Once they reached Molly's flat, he said, "Thanks for taking me as your tag-along, Molly. It turned out to be a lot less miserable than I first expected."

Molly just giggled at his unintentional insult, "I'm glad I took you, too. I would have had no one to laugh at those morons with."

They stayed at the foot of the stairs leading up to her flat for a moment, their laughter having died down. "So the arrow hole-" Sherlock said. Molly looked at him confused for a moment. He cleared his throat. "May I see it?"

"You don't believe me?" she laughed, already leading him up the stairs. He shrugged.

She said with a smirk," C'mon."

Her flat was a hectic mess. There were articles of clothing strewn about, some discarded cups and plates. Mostly books; notebooks, novels,sketchbooks. He laid his eyes on some Disney coloring books. She noticed and said, "For when my niece comes over." He nodded and continued gathering information.

The coffee table had a painting of a woman on it, that Sherlock knew wasn't there when she got it. "Bored," she said answering his questioning gaze. On the coffee table were three sketchbooks, an older one and a newer one and one left open to an unfinished drawing beneath some books with a stain from the rim of a coffee cup on it. CDs, Sherlock remarked. Many CDs. Organized, too, unlike the rest of her living room, neatly underneath her TV. They had been often used, he noticed. Her TV was old, unlike the flat screen John had insisted on getting.

Molly crossed the room and held back a drape, revealing a hole in the wall. "Well, here it is," she said.

Sherlock ran his fingers over it. "Why do you have a bow and arrow?"

"I used to take archery. My mum wanted me to take dancing, my grandmother wanted me to be a cheerleader. I wasn't even remotely interested in either. But my grandmother took archery when she was young, so she offered a compromise."

"Your family sounds dumb," he said. He then thought that sounded not good.

Molly replied, "My dad wasn't like that. And my brother's nice."

"But why did I not know that? Wait- you don't have muscles where an archer would. And an archer would have marks on his forearm from the arrow grazing it overtime." Molly opened her mouth to speak when suddenly his eyes widened,"Oh! You quit! I always hated extracurricular activities, too. Waste of time."

Molly nodded. "Yeah, I was more into art."

"I can see," he said taking a seat on her couch and gesturing about the room. "But, of course, I already knew. You come into work with graphite on your hands quite alot. You should wash more thoroughly." She rolled her eyes and sat beside him. There was another moment of silence as the two sat on her couch, with just the sound of her clock ticking. Sherlock sat with his leg crossed over the other and lips pursed. His eyes flickered over her sketchbooks.

"Just ask me," Molly said.

"Huh, uh, what?" he said craning his neck in a way that tried to say that he meant to stammer. Molly made a face at him, amused and surprised. He grimaced at her, "May I see your drawings?"

"I suppose, " she said, grabbing a sketchbook off the table. "Just- don't be too harsh." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. She showed him her drawings. Sherlock praised her talents, once he found ability to speak. One was of John, to which, Sherlock smiled fondly. He flipped to one of himself,looking sad.

_You look sad, when you think he can't see you._

He shook the memory and continued looking at her artwork. "Sorry if that's creepy," she remarked, pointing to his drawing. "I just don't have many faces to draw."

"No, Molly. It's okay. I like it."

"Egoistic," she snorted.

Sherlock had rummaged through her watercolors as she just followed along, making comments.

But eventually, she yawned.

"Oh," Sherlock said.

"What?" Molly said, glancing at the clock. "It's half-past midnight?How'd that happen?" Molly looked up at his face. He looked like a sad little boy, a lost puppy.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Hm? Nothing."

He wanted to stay. He didn't want to go back to the same empty flat that was filled with so many disgustingly sentimental, good memories.

"Ask, Sherlock," Molly said softly.

"What?" he said.

"Just ask. The answer is yes."

His mouth hung agape so Molly sighed and said, "You can take my bed or the floor. I like sleeping on the couch."

He paused and said, "I know. You like sleeping on the couch and falling asleep listening to your CDs. I like sleeping on the couch at Baker Street,too. I'll take the floor."

She smiled," Good. I'm gonna go change into pajamas. I'll get you some blankets and pillows."

He nodded and took off his shoes and his suit jacket, then his dress shirt so he was left in a t-shirt and slacks. She returned to the living room with bundles of pillows and blankets in a t-shirt and pajama pants with Boston Terriers on them.

"Thank you," he said laying them out on the floor. Toby snaked over and laid on them.

"Toby, shoo!" she said. Sherlock moved him to his side as he lay down and began stroking him.

"What about the music?" he asked as Molly turned off the lights and lay on the couch.

"I thought it'd bother you," she said.

"Not at all, " he said.

"If you're sure," she said putting in a CD and returning to the couch. "This is my favorite." Sherlock closed his eyes, softly petting Toby, lying on his back in the dark.

She put on "April 8th" by Neutral Milk Hotel.

"Thank you, Molly," he uttered into the darkness.

_ "_You're welcome, Sherlock," she whispered as their breathing evened and they drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It looks as though I'm updating this. Mostly out of sheer boredom but we'll see how it goes.

* * *

Watching Dexter together at Molly's flat had become a fairly frequent occurrence between she and Sherlock. Sherlock would always point out little things, like so-called holes in the plot but Molly knew he really enjoyed the show. Dexter reminded Molly of Sherlock, it's one of the main reasons she enjoyed watching it so much. Besides the serial killings, of course. But they both shared the sociopathic tendencies, and sociopaths were her type.

Sherlock sat in an arm chair with his leg crossed over the other. Molly sat crosslegged on the couch eating popcorn. As Dexter cut the face of a sex offender to take a blood sample on the screen. Dexter said, "No one hurts my children," and proceeded to murder the man.

Molly said, "Aw, he's really just a big sweetheart, isn't he?"

Sherlock responded by holding a hand out sideways, to which Molly threw some popcorn. He caught it in his palm and popped it in his mouth without looking away from the screen.

Sherlock didn't know there was this side to Molly. Ashamed to admit it, he always kind of thought she was normal. He found her more interesting, of course, after the Fall, but she wasn't just a smart girl with a stupid crush who wore unattractive clothing who also happened to be a good friend. And Sherlock found that surprising, and most intriguing.

"Miami Metro is bursting at the seams with idiots- besides Dexter. They make Scotland Yard look like professionals," Sherlock scoffed.

"They are professionals, Sherlock."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows in thought, as if he had forgotten and replied, "Oh, right...He doesn't seem like much of a sociopath to me. Obviously has a moral compass, and -despite how much he denies it- feelings."

"Yes, I agree. You aren't either," Molly replied.

"And no trouble socializing- what?"

"Sherlock, please. Maybe you're socially daft and ignorant and- well- but you aren't a sociopath."

"Oh? And by what knowledge have you come to such a conclusion?"

"Drama queens can't be sociopaths. It's impossible."

"Well, you wear pajamas with puppies on them while you watch people being murdered on television."

Molly shrugged. "My...therapist that my mum made me see-after my dad died, when I was 8- he diagnosed me with social anxiety and then as a sociopath."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He's an idiot. You are socially daft and ignorant-" he stopped and smirked at her and she laughed-" but no sociopath. You're too emotional."

She nodded. "Yeah, I was just a weird kid. I had no friends. I was interested in all things dead. And I was always bored- that made him come to the conclusion."

He nodded solemnly as childhood memories resurfaced in a pathetically sentimental fashion. He cleared his throat. "Doesn't surprise me, people are stupid like that."

She laughed. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he nearly grunted.

"Would you be able to tell Dexter was a serial killer, if you knew him?"

"...Probably."

"Liar," she said. He raised an eyebrow at her and she continued, " This is how it would happen, okay? You'd meet him, pick up on the fact that he's hiding something, realize he's supposedly a sociopath. So you'd desperately follow him, to catch him in the act of something. Why? Because you're the only supposed sociopath allowed. And then you'd find out he kills people. But later, you discover he only kills bad people so despite your ego, you allow him to live one more day as another supposed sociopath."

"That...is not at all what would happen."

"Oh,really?"

"I'd let him continue doing Miami Metro's job. Just as long as he didn't do mine. Maybe invite him for fish and chips."

"And secretly hate him over fish and chips for being another supposed sociopath. Drama queen."

"Not true. And everyone secretly hates their friends, just look at John's."

"I dont hate John, and you certainly don't."

"Well- no one suspects Dexter is a serial killer either, do they?"

Molly rolled her eyes and he continued, "What are you hiding, Molly Hooper?"

"Nothing you wouldn't be able to see from the way my shirt is wrinkled or something."

"Enough of the games! Where are you keeping the bodies?"

"Well, in the morgue, of course! The perfect disguise, where dead bodies aren't out of place," she replied mock-cryptically, trying to hide her smile.

"Ah! You are clever! No one would suspect the sweet-faced girl from the morgue, except me- Sherlock Holmes!"

"Too much caffeine, maybe, Sherlock?" she laughed though she was hanging onto the sweet-faced part. That's good,right, sweet-faced?, she thought. "Don't underestimate me, Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I already made that mistake once," he said in a much cooler tone. Molly looked at him quizzically, she couldn't tell if this was part of the game or not. He smiled at her and held out a hand.

She threw the popcorn and he caught it. "Sociopath," he muttered.

She scoffed," Drama queen."

While her eyes returned to the screen, his eyes flickered back to her and as she stuffed her cheeks with popcorn, his lips formed a small smile. No, he wasn't a sociopath, he admitted to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited, and/or read.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly were in the lab in comfortable silence which was occasionally broken by a few comments concerning work and other times completely irrelevant to work.

Out of nowhere Sherlock subtly said, "I'm hungry."  
"Well, when I went to the machine for crisps half an hour ago, you said you didn't want any. So you'll have to leave or suffer," Molly said.

"I'll take the former. How about the fish and chips place, you agreed they had the best."

Molly's throat caught as she wondered if he was asking what she thought he was. After Tom, she had nearly accepted that Sherlock would always be just a friend. Now, they had gotten so close and it seemed as though there was hope.

Confused, she said, "Yeah, I did."

"Good, I'll be finished here in 10 minutes. Will you be ready, then?"he asked.

"I'm going?" she spoke without thinking. She had been trying to act more confident around him, but it was hard when he was generally the most perfect man she ever knew.

"Yes, if you want. But you are hungry- I've heard your stomach more than once in the past hour- so if you refused, it'd just be rude."

"No,it wouldn't."

"Yes, it would."

"No, it wouldn't-" she sighed, despite the growing happiness within her."Yes, I want to go."

He returned to peering at his slides and said, "See, that wasn't so hard."

"Shut up, Sherlock," she muttered.

He smirked behind his microscope.

* * *

"You've really, honestly, never seen the Lion King?" Molly asked him.

He waved a chip as he said, "If I have, I've deleted from my memory."

"Do you watch movies?Ever?"

"John made me watch a James Bond movie once."

Molly scoffed," What about Psycho, American Psycho-"

"Hm, I'm sensing a motif."

"- Mary Poppins! Um...Pulp Fiction.."

"Now, Mary Poppins I think I have heard of. It's the one with basically the female version of Mycroft, yes?"

Molly covered her mouth to stifle her laughter, " No, the umbrella is about where the parallel ends."

"Well, I think it's odd your taste ranges from Dexter and things called Psycho to Glee and other things with people singing," Sherlock commented through a mouthful of chips.

"I'm a contradiction," she said.

He shrugged, and tilted his head in thought. "Yes, you are. But this, Mary Poppins, it does involve people singing, correct?"

She nodded," Yes, that is correct."

"Oh, is it the one with the woman singing about hills? Because I vaguely recall my mother watching something of that general gist persistently when I was young."

"No, but that does have the same actress in it. But I like Mary Poppins much better."

"Hm. Perhaps we should watch it together so that I can collect comparisons of Mary Poppins and Mycroft for reference in future arguments as a comeback."

Molly giggled, "Well, good luck with that. They're more like polar opposites."

"I'll see about that. Are you ready to go?"

She nodded and searched her bag for a tip.

* * *

Walking home- her home- Sherlock's phone vibrated. He pulled it out to see John's name glowing on the screen. He clicked the answer button.

"Yes, John?"

"I'm at the flat, you're not here," John said.

"It's good to see your deduction skills are sharpening."

John sighed in frustration on the other end and said, "Where are you? Are there still no cases?"

"No, none worthy of my time. And I'm with Molly if you must know though I hoped that now that you're married, you'd make more of an effort to contain your obsession with me."

Molly smiled and slapped him lightly on the arm, and he smirked down at her.

" You're at Bart's?" John asked, irritated.

"No, we're on our way to her flat."

"...Why?"

"To watch Mary Poppins."

"Mary Poppins?" John asked in disbelief. "Sherlock, if you're pulling another Jeanine charade- I thought you were done manipulating Molly. She doesn't deserve-"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock's change in tone made Molly crane her neck up at him curiously.

Sherlock continued, "That's not what I'm doing, John. I'll be at the flat in a few hours. In the meantime, concern yourself with a jig-saw puzzle or something."

When they hung up, Molly looked up at him wondering if she should ask or he would just tell her.

She shyly asked, " Something wrong?"

"No, John's just mad that I'm not creating another adventure for him to romanticize about for his blog."

"Oh, so are you going home?"

"No?" he drew his eyebrows together in confusion as he looked down at her.

"Oh, good," she smiled.

...

Once at her flat, they both shrugged off their coats and she searched through her movie collection while he plopped down in his claimed arm chair.

He watched her as she looked, kneeled before her cabinet. Strands of hair would fall down and he counted how many times she'd try blowing it out of the way before she brushed it behind her ear. He thought he heard her offer tea, but he wasn't listening so he just shook his head.  
He would never hurt Molly like that, he was mad at John for thinking so. Although, he admitted, it wasn't so far-fetched.

Though he almost wished it weren't so, he spent time with Molly for no other reason than that he enjoyed it. He didn't plan on acting on it, only sitting back and observing how she made him feel warm and safe and not lonely.

"I like it here, Molly," he said quietly, startling himself that he said it out loud. When Sherlock Holmes thought out loud, he didn't regret it.

Molly stopped and looked at him, "Yeah?"

"Yes," he said, with an affirmative nod. "It's...warm."

"It gets cold sometimes," she trailed off.

He nodded again, slowly.

"I like having you here, Sherlock," she said as she continued her search through her mess of DVDs and VHS tapes.  
Sherlock's head snapped up, and he looked at her confused. "You..." he began quietly.

"Ah! Here it is!" she exclaimed, jumping up from the carpet, not bothering to clean up the mess of movies she made in her scavenging.  
She grabbed a blanket and plopped down on her spot on the couch after she put in the movie.

He didn't often make room for pop culture in his Mind Palace, but he would if it was concerning Molly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks everyone who reviewed, followed, and/or read.**

* * *

"So you and Molly..." John began, sitting in his arm chair.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow from his own chair, his legs crossed. His eyes narrowed as his eyebrows drew together with confusion and impatience.

"How was Mary Poppins?" John asked abruptly.

"I'm not really sure. I didn't pay attention through probably 40 minutes in the middle. But I watched the beginning and end. But I think I've gathered enough to mock Mycroft."

"Wha- I don't even- I'm surprised she convinced you into watching it all," John chuckled, despite his slight concern.

"Convinced? Oh,no, I watched it for research. Like I said- Mycroft."

"Sherlock, do you expect me to understand your language without even context clues?"

"Oh, you're right, I don't," Sherlock replied, exasperated.

John sighed, "Still no cases? A woman sent me a message on my blog, about supposed extraterrestrials in her garden?"

"Mycroft Poppins," Sherlock murmured to himself, chuckling.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Hm? Oh, no, boring. Wait- explain."

"She says every night, she hears a 'shuffling' in her back garden so she looks out the window and sees a pair of glowing eyes at human height."

Sherlock said with irritation, "Animals, perhaps."

"Human height, Sherlock."

"There's such a thing as trees. And a distorted perspective of a scared, old widow who lives alone in practically the middle of no where."

"How- " John began, confused, but instead continued, " She says there are no trees, or vegetation that could obstruct her view. She sees an outline of a person with glowing eyes."

Sherlock sighed, "Where?"

"Cardiff. I've got her address."

"Fine, we'll go. I'm doing this for you."

John squinted up at him as he picked himself up from his chair, "How is that?"

"You're a junkie in need of a fix," Sherlock said with a smile as he stalked towards his bedroom.

John muttered curse words at his retreating back as Sherlock said, "Cardiff! I hate Cardiff!" and closed his bedroom door.

...

"Ah, hello, Mrs. Wood!" John greeted with a smile, graciously shaking her hand.

Her eyes were wide, as if in terror. And she shivered in layers of frumpy sweaters and cardigans.

"Hi, take me to the garden," Sherlock intervened, pausing at the end to flash a forced smile.

"Sherlock," John hissed.

The woman just nodded and led them through her cottage to the back door to the garden.

Sherlock walked out, shooting his stare in every which way, his eyes narrowed in concentration as Mrs. Wood explained her situation again. He stopped when he heard something squish beneath his feet.

"My tomatoes!" Mrs. Wood exclaimed.

"Oh, oops," Sherlock said, scraping the tomato on his shoe off on the cobblestone path running through her garden.

"Sorry about that," John muttered to the elderly woman.

Sherlock said, "Good news is we can leave! Mrs. Wood, yes, there is no vegetation to obstruct your view from your window. However, you failed to mention the lantern."

When she and John only stared with blank faces he continued, "The lantern with the bejeweled flowers on it? Pretty obvious. Every night, you think you hear something. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Either way, it's not so far-fetched. You look out the window, expecting to see your past husband. When in reality, he's not there, of course- it's just the light reflecting off passing cars onto the jewels on the lantern. People see what they expect to see. You're welcome. John, let's go."

The woman stood frozen in place, and John placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Wood," he said, as she led them back to the front of the house weakly.

"Thank you," she said softly at the door.

Sherlock turned to offer her another false smile, but she shut the door in his face. He slowly wheeled around to face John and asked, "Not good?"

"Well, you basically told a recently widowed old woman that she's gone insane. So, yeah, not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at his feet as they walked down the path from her house. "I did try, though."

John sighed and patted him on the back, " Not quite, though. Molly would be cross with you."

Sherlock stopped and squinted down at him, "Why are you saying that?"

John shrugged with a smug smile, " Well, she would, wouldn't she?"

...

"Aw, poor woman," Molly said, her hands wrapped around a mug and her legs tucked under her as Sherlock filled her in on the disappointing case.

"Yes, that she is...Poor," Sherlock said, shaking his head sadly to feign sympathy.

Molly giggled, " Why are you acting like that?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, nothing. Go on," she said, with a wave of her hand.

"Well, that's it. No extraterrestrials in the tomato garden. Just a bejeweled lantern and mirage of a dead husband."

"Has John wrote about it?"

"Yes, despite it's intense lack of excitement. Calls it, 'The Ghost in the Garden," he said, rolling his eyes.

She laughed, "Sounds more fun than the morgue."

"Not really. Besides, you like the morgue and you've been painting, too."

She blushed, "...Yeah."

"May I see?"

"No, it's not finished."

Sherlock huffed, "Fine."

"Do you like art?" she asked curiously.

He shrugged. " I suppose I can respect it. Some of it. Some of it's just rubbish to me. I like your's though."

"Well, thanks, Sherlock," she said, blushing.

"Uh, what about you? Who's your favorite artist?" he asked.

"Vincent van Gogh. By far, ever since I was little I've been in love with him."

"In love with him?"

She continued, "Not only is his work beautiful and so original, especially for his time, but he is just a beautiful person."

"Hm," Sherlock said, raising both eyebrows and dropping them.

"Don't tell me you dont know who Vincent van Gogh is," Molly said.

"Oh, I know who he is."

"Haven't deleted him?"

"Eh, mostly. I keep more information on composers but I'm willing to keep more on him. Enlighten me," he said, leaning back on her couch, taking a sip from his tea.

She smiled and began, " Okay. I've seen practically every documentary ever made about Vincent so I know pretty much all there is to know - well, all we can know. He was born in the Netherlands in 1853..."

* * *

**I promise more Sherlolly next chapter**.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for the reviews and follows and favorites.**

"Ghost in the Garden? I rarely take time to read the adventures of the detective and his blogger, but this was really quite the read," Mycroft scoffed sarcastically over the phone.

" You're hurting my feelings, Mycroft, really. Bye-" Sherlock said.

"- Wait, Sherlock. I called to tell you about a possible case, I know you've been quite useless as of late. You've got someplace to be," Mycroft said as not a question, but statement of fact.

"Well, I certainly don't spend any free time chatting about old times on the phone with you. What case?" Sherlock said impatiently.

"Well, less of a case, perhaps. More of a person of interest. There's a thief in England, who takes small sums and flees never being seen. Scotland yard has only now connected the dots that these robberies are connected."

"Sounds boring-"

"So stupid," Mycroft muttered before continuing, " No, he's a ghost. No evidence, never captured on camera, just missing money. That takes someone with power, the same power to get free of charges after breaking into the tower of London."

"Moriarty?"

"Rather, Moriarty's possible henchman. I believe it's John Clay. Look into it. Now, go have fun on your date."

"I'm not going on a date," Sherlock spat out disgusted.

Mycroft laughed bitterly, " You become more and more ordinary each day."

" And you're practically perfect in every way," Sherlock mocked in a high-pitched tone, quoting Mary Poppins.

"...Sherlock, are you high?"

"Oh, gain some dynamic, will you? For God's sake," Sherlock said hanging up.

He put on his coat and scarf and caught his reflection in the mirror above the chimney. He ruffled his hair and caught a cab to Molly's.

He knocked on her door, and she appeared in jeans and a cardigan with a small smile. "Well, let's go," Sherlock said uneasily.

...

Molly bounced with excitement from the moment they stepped into the art museum and she immediately led them to the Vincent van Gogh section. She stood in awe before every Van Gogh painting Sherlock presumed she had already seen at least a hundred times before. She could describe every detail without reading the placard and without paying attention to the guide who droned on endlessly in the background.

Sherlock offered visiting some other exhibits and she'd say, "Okay, in a minute," and continue to indulge in every detail of the paintings and gush about how beautiful they were.

Sherlock didn't mind, he took it as an opportunity to observe her. She seemed so much different in this setting. While she was brilliant in the lab, Sherlock was always the wiser or at least she thought he was and she lost all confidence. But here, she was the expert and she was perfectly confident and so happy she glowed.

Suddenly, she looked up at him with a dazzling smile and for whatever reason, his breath caught. And her image stayed in his mind longer than it lasted in reality. He filed it away.

"Sherlock?" she asked, slightly worried.

His eyes were fixed on her and he blinked, and replied incoherently "Uh whabjdndsay?"

"Uh, what?" she asked.

"I said, what did you say?"

"Oh, just that this is his doctor," she said, pointing to a painting. "They had a striking resemblance, he and Vincent. Both gingers. But Vincent's the best ging," she giggled.

Sherlock smirked down at her with a warmth that met his eyes and Molly noticed and suddenly couldn't breathe.

"Alright?" he asked.

She nodded and gulped. She soon regained her composure as she nearly skipped to the next painting.

"Oh, he is just...the most beautiful person there ever was," Molly said in awe.

"I think you're better," Sherlock said and he nearly- nearly- blushed when he realized the way his words came out.

But Molly didn't realize- she thought too small of herself. "Oh, no, no one's better than Vincent. I could never..." she trailed off.

It was late in the afternoon when they returned to her flat. Sherlock had hoped he could loiter around for a bit, cloistered in the clutter and warmth of her home but he received a text almost as soon as he arrived.

_A client's on their way to Baker Street._

_-JW_

Sherlock did a double take as he nearly pouted at the text. He was certainly never one to choose being cooped up and safe over the possibility of danger and the risk of death.

"Gotta go. There's a client," he announced curtly.

"Oh, that's okay. I'll see you later then," she said sweetly.

"Of course," he smiled.

"Thank you so much for taking me. It was lovely."

"So were yhuh- it was for me,too."

She looked at him curiously as he stepped out the door. Once the door was closed, he shook his head. His mind was jumbled- it was like a bad trip,a nasty high. Well, besides the fact it felt good.

**I know it's short but I'll be posting a fairly long chapter tomorrow.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for following, reading and reviewing. **

**Evelyn Rose Caisade: Thank you, your review made me so happy, youre so sweet. **

**I'm making this a sort of adaptation of one of the Sherlock Holmes stories called the Red-Headed League with my own twist to it so yeah.**

* * *

A plump man, Jabez Wilson, sat before them, with nothing remotely interesting or out of the norm about him, with the exception of his blazing red hair.

As John took in the sight of the man, Sherlock noticed his questioning expression and said, "Beyond the obvious fact that he has done some manual labor, has been in China, and done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

"How'd ya know all that, Mr. Holmes? How'd you know I did manual labor? True as gospel, I been a carpenter for some years."

"The muscles in your right hand are much more developed."

"And the writing?"

"A short leap, there's a smooth patch on your left sleeve where you rest it on the desk."

" But China?"

"There's a tattoo of a fish immediately above your wrist. Style that only could have been done in China. The trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink is quite limited to China."

John rolled his eyes and Mr. Wilson chuckled, "Well, at first I thought you were being clever, but I see there's nothing to it at all."

A snicker escaped from John as Sherlock drew his eyebrows together in great confusion, and looked off to the side as if there he'd find answers as to why this man had just accused him of not being clever.

He drew his eyes back to the client reluctantly and said, " Well, the advertisement?"

"Oh, yes, here it is," Mr. Wilson said drawing a flyer and pointing to a column, "This is what started it all. Read for yourself."

The paper read:

_TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of six pounds per hour for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."_

"What in the hell does that mean?" John spluttered.

Sherlock sat back, "Hm," he paused in thought and continued,"Tell us about yourself, your household, and the effect of this advertisement. Try to not be boring."

"Uh, yes, well, I have a small pawnbroker's business at Saxe-Coburg Square, near the city. I used to keep two assistants, now I've only got one; he is willing to come for half wages, so as to learn the business."

"His name?" Sherlock said, trying not to tune out.

"Vincent Spaulding..." Wilson said, Sherlock's mind had forgotten about Wilson and the red-heads. Vincent. Molly. Suddenly, the image of Molly's eyes lighting up as she told him of the background in great detail of a Van Gogh painting, The Potato Eaters.

"Mr. Holmes? Uh, Mr. Holmes?" Wilson said.

"Sherlock, were you listening?" John said.

"Hm? Oh, yes, go on- redheads."

"Well, I was saying- Vincent- he's very bright. However, he spends his time with art when he ought to be improving his mind. But- on the whole- he's a good worker. But Spaulding came down to my office last month, with this very paper in his hands, and he said, "I wish, Mr. Wilson, that I was red-headed.' I asks, 'Why's that?' and he says,'There's a vacancy on the League of Red-Headed Men. If only my hair changed color."

"What is it, then?" John asked, losing his own patience.

"Have you never heard of the League of Red-Headed Men?"

They simultaneously shook heads, though Sherlock did with more boredom.

"Well, it's a good business, and being eligible it pricked up my ears for my own business had not been good for some years, and an extra sum of cash would have been very handy."

"Tell us about it," John said.

"It was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins. He himself was red-headed and had a great sympathy for red-headed men; so,when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to men whose hair is red. It's splendid pay with very little to do."

"But, then, millions of red-headed men would apply," John said, confused.

"Ah, you'd think- as I thought- but it's confined to Londoners, and grown men. And light red or dark red hair is not accepted. It must be fiery, blazingly bright red. This is what Vincent told me. And with my hair, I seemed as good competition as any and since Vincent knew so much I thought he might prove useful so I had him come with me. He was very willing for a holiday, so we shut up the business and headed over to the address on the advertisement. You wouldn't believe the sight. It seemed every red-head in the world had come down to apply, it was a sea of orange. There was but few of the vivid red which Vincent had described so he urged me to make it through the crowd and finally we had made it to the office. There was a small man, with hair even redder than mine. He had disqualified many but found interest in me and closed the door to talk in private. He studied my hair- I felt uncomfortable and then he grabbed my hands and began congratulating me. Then, he tugged my hair and I yelped in pain. He said, 'You have water in your eyes,' and screamed out to the crowd that the vacancy had been filled. He told me his name was Duncan Ross. He was disappointed to hear I was a bachelor, but decided I'd be alright. In the end, Vincent said he'd watch the business for me. And Ross was very stern in explaining- he said, 'You have to be in the office or at least the building the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your position. No excuse will avail.' I said it should be no problem, since it's only four hours a day. I asked about the work and he said, copying the Encyclopedia Brittanica and that I start the next day."

"How exactly is any of this legal?" John asked, as Sherlock remained pensive opposite him.

"Yes, well, I began to think it was a hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I couldn't imagine. I had practically talked myself out of it, but decided to go the next day just for a look-see. And it turned out all right. At two o'clock I'd leave and Ross would compliment my work and see me off."

"Does this actually have a point?" Sherlock snapped.

"Sorry, go on," John said.

"Well, the point is this, Mr. Holmes- everyday was like this, I was almost to the B's when suddenly it all came to an end. The whole business- just poof! I went and there was a tack on the door. Here it is, read it yourself."

He passed a piece of white cardboard to Sherlock that read: _THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. Oct. 9, 2013._

Sherlock and John observed the announcement and the rueful face behind it, and both suddenly burst into laughter.

"I can't see how that's funny," cried the client, his face flushing until it merely matched his hair. "If you'll only laugh at me, I'll go elsewhere."

"No, please, your case is refreshingly unusual. Have you read the garbage on his blog?" Sherlock said, jutting his thumb at John who sneered back. " This is gold compared to what we've had lately. What did you do when you found this on the door?"

"I called the offices but none of them seemed to know anything about it. I went to the landlord and asked him if he knew what happed to the Red-Headed League and he said he never heard of it. I asked about Duncan Ross, he said he never heard of him, neither. I said, 'The man at No. 4,' and he said, 'The red-head?', I nodded and he said his name was William Morris. That he was a solicitor, using the room for temporary convenience until his new premises were ready,that he moved out the day before. I asked where I could find him and he says,'His new offices, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.' So I went, but it was a manufactory for artificial knee-caps and no one there had heard of a William Morris or Duncan Ross. I went home. Vincent said if I waited I should hear from him somehow. But that didn't seem good enough. I didn't want to lose such a place without a struggle so I came to you, Mr. Holmes."

"Okay," Sherlock said shortly.

"Okay? So what, you'll take it?" Wilson asked.

"Yes, I'll take it. It seems more interesting than the first glance."

"Oh, thank you, I want to find out why they did this... prank- if it was a prank and I don't want to lose the pay-"

"What's Vincent Spaulding like?" Sherlock interjected.

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no short of thirty. But like he said, he takes advantage of poor business to do these sketches and things-"

"Has he attended to your business well in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, no. There's never very much to do. That's why I'd like to keep my place with the League-"

"Yes, now, if you could please leave," Sherlock said, standing and ushering the man out.

"Goodbye, Mr. Wilson," John said, also standing with an awkward, vague wave.

Once the client left, Sherlock announced, "Don't talk to me for fifty minutes." And he curled himself up on the couch, facing the wall and closed his eyes.

...

Molly didn't have work, so she decided to go over to the museum again after she grabbed some quick breakfast.

She knew it wouldn't be as fun without Sherlock there, but he was busy on a case. And she figured being alone would allow her to time to think about where she stood with him.

She was in the Van Gogh exhibit, dragging her gaze across every brush stroke in utter admiration when a voice disrupted her thoughts.

"Vincent's always been my favorite."

Molly looked over her shoulder a bit startled, and though the voice didn't remotely resemble that of the detective's baritone, she still hoped he'd be there when she turned around.

Instead, there was a young and fairly attractive man with dark, cropped hair who looked to be about her age, smiling at her.

" My parents were fans too. In fact, I was named after him. Vincent Spaulding," he continued, holding a hand out for Molly to shake.

She took it hesitantly and managed a small smile, "Hi. I'm Molly."

"Are you a fan of Van Gogh's, Molly?" he asked, joining her before the painting.

"Oh, definitely. He's my favorite," she replied.

He smirked at her, "He's my greatest inspirations in my own work."

She thought he sounded a bit pretentious but asked, "You're an artist?"

He let out a small laugh and scratched the back of his head, "Well, I like to paint and draw. Wouldn't call myself an artist, however."

"Oh, I do, too," she said, feeling shy.

"Really? I love meeting people who have the same love for art as I do," he beamed. "Hey, would you like to join me for a coffee or something?"

She wanted to decline. It seemed like now, Sherlock might actually return her feelings at least a tiny bit. She didn't want to throw that away. But then again, he was just asking for coffee, right? She figured, they were just two people with common interests sharing a hot beverage.

"Uh, okay," she replied, sounding more like a little girl.

"Great," Vincent said with a grin.

They continued to share their vast knowledge of Van Gogh and the world art and Molly thought, _Maybe it'll be good for me, to have one friend who's normal._


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for reviewing, reading and following! You guys are cool.**

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"Any ideas?" John asked behind a newspaper the next morning.

"Several, but most were for mere entertainment. I'm fairly certain I've solved it. Just got to go see to some things for validation," Sherlock answered from the couch, staring absently at the ceiling.

"What things are we seeing to, exactly?"

"Vincent Spaulding."

...

That afternoon, Sherlock and John went to a deli across from Mr. Wilson's pawnbroker business, waiting for the redhead fanatic to show.

"So...you and Molly?" John said, breaking a tense silence.

Sherlock just furrowed his eyebrows, so John continued, "How is she?"

"She's ...well. Why?"

"Just you know- it seems like you two have become closer-"

Sherlock tilted his head as if he were trying to hear better, "Yes, why does it matter?"

John shrugged and put his hands up in defense, "You just seem a bit...happier without a case so I was wondering-"

"What, John?"

"I don't know- maybe you...like her."

"I do, obviously."

"I mean, as a girlfriend."

Sherlock stared blankly at him for a few moments before saying, "She's not. I'm married to my work, John, how many times must I tell you?"

"See, these are the things that you say and do that make Mrs. Hudson think I'm gay," he accused in a hushed tone, pointing his finger.

Then, Sherlock stood from the table and left the diner, and John followed at his tail. Sherlock crossed the street to where a dark haired man was entering the shop.

They both followed shortly after. The business was very small and run down, it became obvious why Mr. Wilson was desperate for money from any other possible source.

The man Sherlock assumed was Vincent had disappeared down a flight of stairs and when he reappeared John and Sherlock were waiting behind the counter.

"Oh, sorry, I was just collecting a few things and going to close up," the man said to them with an apologetic smile as he zipped up a backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

"Oh, well...-sorry, what's your name?" Sherlock asked with a wry smile.

"Vincent," the man said, with a hint of impatience.

"Vincent, what's your hours, then?"

"Uh, can't say. They're indefinite these days. Business hasn't been good," Vincent replied.

"Ah, right," Sherlock said.

"Well, if you don't mind, I really should close up. I've got some place to be," Vincent said.

"Of course, have a good day, " he said, turning on his heel out the door.

Sherlock and John walked down the street as Vincent locked the shop's doors. John said, "What the hell was that?"

Sherlock replied, "What?"

"You were just acting a bit strange..."

Sherlock turned into an alley and stood against the wall. "What are we doing?" John asked.

"Seeing what place he has to be."

"You still think it's him?"

"I know it's him, now."

"How?"

"His knees."

John just peered up at him in confusion, and Sherlock stepped out to pursue Vincent who was two blocks away hailing a cab.

"Are we running?" John asked in a heavy sigh.

"Looks like it," Sherlock replied, as they picked up speed.

Fortunately, two men running frantically through the streets of London near dark never seemed to catch any spectator's particular interest.

Sherlock and John had become skilled at pursuing a suspect without being noticed. They cut through alleyways and jumped fences without being seen in the cabbie's rearview.

However, no amount of experience or intellect he could have required in his years as a consulting detective could have prepared him for when the cab stopped.

Sherlock's feet skidded to a halt and John ran into his back. "His home?" John asked, in irritation.

"No," Sherlock choked out. It could be, several people lived in that building. But he'd seen them all. He memorized them in case he had to. It was his safe place.

He continued, "It's Molly's."

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**Sorry about the length. I hope this is making at least a little bit of sense. Review maybe? **


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock turned on his heel away from the familiar building that was remembered with light and warmth in his Mind Palace but was now clouding and growing cobwebs.

"Sherlock!" John called as he tried to catch up to him with his considerably shorter gait.

Sherlock continued in his stride silently with a stern frown set on his features, until John grabbed him by the shoulder, "What are you doing? We ran across town to catch up with him! And you just turn around?"

"I had it wrong," Sherlock hissed.

"Wrong?"

"Yes...No. Just let me think!"

"What wrong? It wasn't Vincent?" John asked, confused.

"No, not that! It was him, just shut up- I need to think!" Sherlock exasperated.

At Baker Street, Sherlock dragged his bow across his violin as he stood before the window and he stayed like that until he went to Bart's the next morning.

He was already in the lab, perched at his spot at the microscope when Molly entered. "Oh, hi Sherlock," Molly smiled with surprise.

Sherlock gave a barely audible hum in recognition and had intended to wait for her to explain. He didn't know what exactly he wanted her to explain, and he was nearly certain she didn't think she had anything to explain but he still waited. And then she finally spoke.

"Sherlock, I read this article on colony collapse disorder and I really think you'd enjoy it. Talks about all kinds of theories like viruses,nosema, and varroa mite. And there's these pesticides called neo- something and they affect-"

"I don't understand what you're trying to do or why," Sherlock intervened.

"What?" Molly said, scrunching up her nose in complete confusion.

"Nevermind. Forget it," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked, suddenly feeling much smaller but trying her hardest to be assertive. She knew Sherlock preferred her that way.

"I have got work to do. You do too, it'd be easier without the conversation," he said, trying to sound cold and heartless. He stopped at this realization and wondered why he would be _trying_ to sound heartless.

Molly sighed and said as if she were speaking to a child, " Okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration and kneaded his palms into his temples and groaned, "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Molly asked annoyed with honest curiosity.

"Sounding so damn understanding!" he cried.

After overcoming initial surprise and confusion, Molly couldn't help but let the corners of her mouth creep upwards.

"Stop it," Sherlock said.

A giggled escaped her and Sherlock turned to face her, "What?"

She shook her head, " Well, you're being silly."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, "Oh, silly, right, okay!" He waved his arms with each syllable.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What happened?" Molly asked evenly.

"Oh, like you don't know!"

"I don't?"

"Fine. It doesn't matter," he said and grabbed his coat before disappearing behind the doors.

Molly just sat back down and retreated to her work with a slight shake of her head. She didn't know what his problem was but she was too tired to work through it.

She had been trying to invite him to her flat by using the beekeeping article as a coy but, not to her surprise, he completely ignored it. Her flat was cold and empty, and he was the only company she ever got and had gotten since her brother last visited nearly two years ago. But, honestly, Sherlock was the only company she really cared to have.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi** **so thanks for reviewing and all that stuff you good people. This chapters just a filler but I've been working dilligantly on some new chapters in which the real action takes place. So yeah here ya go.**

"What about the gingers?" John asked from his chair.

"What about them?" Sherlock asked bored, his hands steeped beneath his chin.

"The case, Sherlock," John exasperated.

"Oh, who cares? Probably just a dumb scheme."

"Probably? Scotland Yard says 'probably', not you. You had a good feeling about this case so what's put you off?"

Sherlock suddenly felt the need to move, so he stalked towards the window and looked out at hustling people on the street. "I didn't have a good feeling, really. Just thought it'd be fun and we can't be very picky these days since these people choose to abide the law," he spat, gesturing out the window.

"I already know the answer. I was just seeing if you'd own up. You won't, but I already knew that too," John said. Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes, positioning himself in what John knew was his pre-tantrum form.

"You're not even making sense," he said, waving his hand dramatically.

"Molly," John muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head menacingly and asked raising his eyebrows, "What was that?"

John coughed and said louder, "It's Molly."

"Molly? Who, Molly the pathologist, Molly?" Sherlock asked, as if he were being asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

John shook his head with a smile," Eh, no. Molly, the one you're in love with, Molly."

Sherlock stared blankly at his friend for a few moments before saying,"You- you...need to shut up."

"You hate it when someone makes deductions about you, don't you? Sure, it's fine when you tell me how much everyone secretly hates my moustache but-"

"You didn't make a deduction. It's just another fabrication you've manifested because the gingers couldn't entertain your addiction at the mo," Sherlock said snidely.

"At the mo?" John scoffed. "Yes, I'm mocking you, John. Would you please just-"

"I never say mo."

"Someone says mo," Sherlock said.

"Not me. Does Molly say it?"

"God, no. She's not a moron-"

John waggled his finger at him, "There! See, right there, I told you!"

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and accused,"You're just changing the subject!"

"Now you are!"

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door,"Boys, be quiet."

Sherlock pointed his finger at her instead, " You! ...Make tea!" Mrs. Hudson looked at him appalled before shuffling downstairs to put the kettle on.

John started laughing and Sherlock let a smirk slip. John said, "Just go see her and work out whatever's wrong so we can get on with this case."

Sherlock pointed to the door, "Mrs. Hudson's making tea."

"Sherlock, now." Sherlock pouted but put on his coat and scarf and headed off to Molly's.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks for reviewing and stuff** **and I hope you enjoy.**

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Sherlock climbed up the stairs to her flat wondering if he should have texted first. He was about to go for the key he knew she kept under her 'Welcome' rug but instead he straightened and knocked on her door.

He listened for her footsteps inside but didn't hear them. He knocked again with no reply and called, "Molly?". Still no answer. He went through her work schedule in his head. She should be off right now unless something came up. He was about to text her for validation so he could set off to Bart's but then he remembered.

Vincent.

So he decided to enter her flat and wait for her to get home out of spite. He grabbed the key from under the rug and went inside. He greeted Toby who slithered between his legs, then he hung up his coat and went to set his scarf on the table. A note caught his eye, and out of spiteful nosiness he picked it up and read.

_Dear family and friends, I dont quite know how to begin. But you should know this is goodbye. I've been sad my whole life. I play up the charade in bright colors and a cheery smile and even convince myself sometimes that I am happy. But im not, and even you couldn't see Sherlock. _

_Of course, I must thank you, John and Mary, for being great friends and making me laugh in the darkest of times. And thank you, Sherlock, for showing me Vincent van Gogh, and reminding me of who I really am. And how I'd like to go. Like Vincent, I've never fit in anywhere. And it's too sad to keep pretending. _

_Until we meet again-_

_ Goodbye, _

_Molly _

Sherlock's hands shook and mind went fuzzy as he grabbed a chair and collapsed into it. Trying not to allow the tears rimming his eyes to spill, he skimmed over the letter again. Something was off.

"Human error, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice echoed in his Mind Palace. In his Mind Palace, Sherlock looked up from the letter at him with lost eyes. "Don't be stupid," Mycroft said.

"I'm not stupid!" Sherlock replied.

"Until we meet again?' Little odd for a suicide note? Well, for someone who's atheist at least," Mycroft explained, in a bored tone.

"Of course!" Sherlock silently gasped. "I..." Sherlock began.

"Second stanza beginning with 'Of course'- 'O'. And?" Mycroft said, as if he were helping a child with their homework.

"Until we meet again," Sherlock said,"U."

Sherlock already was out the door. He knew where he had to go and if he was lucky, he'd make it there in time. He thought about running but looking at the route in his Mind Palace he opted for a cab so long as traffic was decent. Once inside a cab, he put the rest of the pieces together. Somehow it was all connected.

Suicide. Gingers. Molly. Art. Moriarty. Suicide. Gingers. Molly -

Wait. Vincent van Gogh. Vincent. Vincent Spaulding.

Suddenly the little scratch on the knob of Molly's door came to focus in his mind. When he entered her flat he hadn't really focused on it since his mind was preoccupied but had subconsciously registered it as suspicious as it wasn't a scratch from a key given the depth and width of the scratch. It meant someone fumbling while trying to hastily pick a lock.

Vincent was at Molly's. But had Molly been at Molly's? Obviously not.

Mycroft's old words over the phone came into focus about the robber gaining fame around Britain. A notorious thief would have to be skilled at picking locks.

If you were to pick an alias, you'd pick something you like. Maybe something you're even obsessive about. A thief who doubles as an artist. Vincent van Gogh. And to even come up with a fake organization for redheads, as Vincent van Gogh was. Vincent Spaulding aka John Clay entered Molly's house that night Sherlock was on his tail. Molly wasn't home. Maybe he took something, probably just information. He probably just wanted to know he could break in. Maybe it was practice.

But whatever the reason, it could have been stopped. Sherlock was right behind him, but his emotions got in the way. Sherlock exited the cab at the art museum which had already closed, hoping he wasn't too late because Moriarty still owed Sherlock a proper fall.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi, thanks for reading and reviewing and everything. Switching up point of view.

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Molly's POV

"Jump," he ordered. My legs shook as I clung to the balcony. I hadn't seen where he had taken me, I had been blindfolded and stuffed into a trunk, but now that I had a view of the city I guessed he had taken me to the museum. We must have been in the back, a part I'd never seen before- but one thing I was sure of was that we were very high up.

"What if I don't?" I tried defiantly though with honest curiosity.

"Well, then, I'll go and take a pint of blood from your brother, niece, and nephew to paint with. What about a nice sunset? I might actually need Sherlock's too, now that I think about. Besides, the consistency calls for alot-"

"Fine, I'll do it. Just don't hurt them," my voice wavered, and I tasted tears as I spoke. He shoved my shoulder, motioning me to step onto the other side of the railing. My legs shook as I looked out at the city and 3 story drop I was about to take.

"You're going to make it look like I did it myself, aren't you?" I asked weakly.

He chuckled, "I already have. Now jump." He gave my shoulder a shove and I gasped and hooked my arm around the railing as I began hyperventilating.

"Oh, for the love of God, jump! Jump, jump, ju-" Vincent's voice was cut off, and replaced with his muffled shouts. I turned around as best as I could hanging off the railing, and I choked on my sobs when I saw his face.

"Molly, get out of here," Sherlock ordered briskly, he tried to keep his voice steady but there was wavering to it as if he had been crying. I caught sight of his eyes, they were rimmed red and puffy. As Sherlock headlocked Vincent until he was unconscious, I tried stepping onto the safe side of the railing but it was hard when my arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably.

"Careful!" Sherlock said, dropping Vincent's limp body carelessly to the floor and rushing over to me. He grabbed me securely under my arms, and then under my knees and lifted me up. Once he placed me safely on the ground my knees buckled and I collapsed into him. He held me and sank onto the floor, leaning up against the wall. My head was buried in his chest and I cried but not as much as I would have thought. He caressed my hair and tucked my head beneath his chin, whispering things I couldn't hear even with his lips so close to my ear but even still, the soft, velvety, gentleness blanketed me in warmth. I shook like a leaf and he whispered repeatedly, "You're safe now."

John barged in the door, gun at the ready, when his eyes landed on us, he was visibly shocked. He seemed more interested in how Sherlock was reacting than the body of a killer lying on the ground but to be honest, I was surprised too. I always knew Sherlock was a good person even before John, and with John I knew he was even better. I didn't know he had the capacity to care so much about someone like me.

John kneeled down beside me, "Are you alright? What happened?" He lifted my chin with two fingers and tilted my head like he was giving me a check-up.

"I'm alright," I said quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Greg and his team will be here soon," John reassured me. Sherlock loosened his hold on me, I guess he felt weird with John being there too. But he would keep his hand on my back or shoulder or stand a little in front of me as he explained things to John, like a shield. I didn't mind, as any armor I had had for myself had shattered when I dangled over death, but somehow I knew Sherlock would fix me eventually just by being there.

I glanced down at Vincent and thought he should be waking soon. I wandered ever so slightly from Sherlock and John, so slightly that my shoulders were still touching Sherlock's but my foot was out a bit too far. Then I realized, he had been farther away before- he must've slowly inched his way closer when we were preoccupied. But I realized too late because I was grabbed by the ankle and my head hit the cement floor and I saw stars. Then Vincent was on top of me and I could just barely make out Sherlock and John struggling to get him off. I felt something cold and sharp pierce my abdomen and then a warm liquid pool around my stomach. There was a gunshot and Vincent fell limply onto of me. I felt his weight almost immediately be lifted from me and I vaguely heard Sherlock say my name before everything went black.

John's POV

Sherlock pulled Vincent's dead body off of Molly almost immediately after I shot Vincent in the head. As Molly's blood pooled eerily over her abdomen, we kneeled down beside her. Sherlock cupped Molly's face as her eyes fluttered shut, gazing at her with the most emotion I've ever witnessed in a single expression. I told him to put pressure on the wound and he wrapped his scarf around her waist.

Scotland Yard came in then, and Molly was taken to the hospital. Sherlock and I followed together in a cab. The ride was quiet and long. I put my hand on his knee for some comforting and he turned away from the window to me with eyes glazed in tears not allowed to be shed.

"She'll be alright, Sherlock," I whispered hoarsely. I hoped I wasn't lying.

Sherlock's POV

I have always perceived death as more interesting than intimidating. Since the beginning of time, human kind has shriveled in terror at the sheer thought of death; conjuring up fabricated fairy tales and folk lore that becomes societal moral law just to escape the idea of the inevitable cease of existence. I thought it was rather pathetic to believe that instead of rotting in the ground, you spend an eternity on a cloud or in flame. And I never could understand why anyone would want to exist forever in any form, even in a "heaven", especially since they spend their lives complaining and tick away the precious time of the so-called "God's greatest gift" being bored.

However, now I understand the belief in a higher power- it is neither logical nor illogical. It is simply human nature to be afraid of the unknown. By no means have I reached a catharsis and suddenly converted from Atheism; but, I wish I believed in something. I wish I could ease my mind with the fanatical faith in a safety net. Or a higher power whom I could just beg and plead for someone inches from death to be magically,miraculously lifted with life.

I wish I had something. Because, right now the thought of death- particularly her death- is leaving me with the most awful feeling of overwhelming fear. When she is lost, so much is lost with her.

It hurts sometimes to be like me. To see things others don't, to know things others don't; to see the grim reality for what it is. Sometimes, I wish my mind would just go blank and I didn't have to care about exercising my brain constantly. I wish my mind could be simple so I could feel so much less.

It's a common misconception that intellectuals have less emotion. They just don't get it, they don't understand what my brain allows me to know. My intelligence makes me who I am, and without it I'd be nothing. But sometimes, I just wish I could be cloistered somewhere dry instead of constantly being left in the rain. I wish someone could blind me and close my ears to the evils outside my door.

Sometimes, just sometimes. Because it's so much easier to be dull. To be the type of person who believes in miracles. It's like a subconscious blanket of safety that follows you. I have no idea what that feels like.

John's POV

Before I had my doubts but now I was certain. Sherlock was good at hiding his emotions, though he never did unless he felt he needed to. But I never thought I'd see the day Sherlock Holmes was in love.

He'd deny it, probably, if I were to ask him now but it's obvious- his eyes give him away. I had thought if Sherlock were to be in a relationship, he'd be a horrible boyfriend which he had proved to be with Jeannette. But I had forgotten the tendency of Sherlock Holmes to do things whole-heartedly or not at all. There are men who buy their girlfriends things all the time, but couldn't care less about them. Seeing Sherlock now, I knew that if Molly were to enter a relationship with Sherlock, she would most certainly be loved.

Sherlock's POV

If I said I couldn't deny it any longer, I'd be lying. I've spent a lifetime perfecting the art of hiding from reality. As it is,there's alot of weight I've gained in my limbic system- so to speak- since, if I must be honest, John entered my life. Before all I had was a skull and puzzles and riddles to solve and I thought that's all there was for me- all that ever could be- and I was content.

And though I took every opportunity to show off how much knowledge is stored in my brain- I cannot imagine that any person could have looked at me and have seen anything but glazed, cold eyes.

I've been called a people reader but to be brutally honest with myself, I can see no more than the facts. I can tell anything from social life to hobbies to secret lovers to how they like their tea. But I am utterly daft on how to see the inner, inner mechanics of a person. I may be able to tell you how a woman cried herself to sleep the night before, and perhaps the reason but I cannot tell you how she felt.

I suppose what I am trying and failing to articulate is that I am hardly human. I'm logistics and numbers. It took more than thirty years but I see a woman as more than that.

I see her, and I see avenues and rivers of thoughts and dreams and stories coursing vibrantly throughout her mind. And I see how lonely she is, how small a corner her life has been pushed into. I couldn't care less the clothes she wears, the reasons she picked them, or whatever bullocks I focused on before.

Now, I've noticed, what I really enjoy is hearing her talk about something she really likes and how the words just flow off her tongue without any sign of forethought. I enjoy seeing the stains of paint about her hands, and the bit that's always above her left eyebrow from when she uses the back of her hand to brush her hair from her face. And I really love being there with her at her flat, when the world outside has darkened and is so uncertain, and inside there's a yellow and orange glow of warmth and we watch meaningless television and for once, there's nothing to be analyzed and instead of my brain racing to find something to fulfill boredom- it's quiet. And it's comforting.

It's like a dog being let in from the rain, and it's just so nice to hear the rain but be dry. And I can't help but feel safe.

And I don't want this feeling to go. I don't want her to go. I want to make her feel the same. She's been alone for so long, and now it feels like a primal need to ensure she fully understands just how not alone she is. I'd like to lend her my eyes to make her see how brilliant she is, and how she seems to be luminous when we're laughing and smiling together and how utterly beautiful she is.

Because I have never seen anyone as beautiful. And now that I do,it feels very urgent that she knows. And I want her to know how safe she makes me feel, and I want to make her feel safe.

It's important she knows and that she feels the same, because I don't know how well I'd cope with withdrawal. Instead of forcing my mind into racing with crime solving or slowing it down with the help of chemicals- every thought just gently falls like leaves and ebbs away until I'm finally at peace with myself. And now it may be too late.

It was easier to deny my need when there wasn't a risk of losing it. It was easier to live without a safe place when I never knew how it would make me feel.

And still, I can't help but feel as if the emptiness of my flat, its unforgiving coldness and echoes of late night television bouncing hauntingly off the walls and dark corners is only part of who I am. And that Molly is much more than I deserve.

Molly's POV

There were several times in my life I thought I was dying.

Once when I was little, I was so sick I fainted lying down. I didn't know that was possible, so I just assumed I was dying.

Another time, at my dad's funeral. The time between his death and the funeral, I had been rather blank,numb. But there seemed to be a finality to it when he was in the coffin. I asked myself, 'Why are these people talking like he's gone forever?' Then I realized he was. My hands shook and my heart palpitated and I thought I was going to puke- so I just left the room. I had never felt like that before, so I thought I was dying. And at the time, I didn't really mind. My dad was my world, and I thought if I died I could see him again.

It was shortly thereafter I got interested in science. And at a very young age, with a need to rely on facts and figures, I chose not to believe in the church where I last saw my father.

This time, I was fairly certain I was dying though it didn't feel like any of the other times. It was just like a fuzzy vintage reel of film playing in my head. It was my life flashing before my eyes, some scenes weren't real. It was just like a sequence of dreams and images and thoughts. None of it made sense. But I didn't feel the fear I had before, I felt safe somehow. And I remembered Sherlock's last words to me. And suddenly it was very urgent to let him know he had not let me down, that I was safe.

Fumbling through an abyss of old memories- perhaps I can start calling this my Mind Garden- emotions and truths resurfaced, each pushing me towards the surface.

I've been in the background my whole life. I've been invisible. And it's given me a sort of ability to read through people, to understand the inner mechanics of their mind. Of course, I cannot deduce like Sherlock. Neither, can I read him- I'm too busy worrying about what he's reading from me. And, yeah, maybe I couldn't see through Moriarty or Vincent(or whatever his name is.)

But I know we are all seeking ways to escape. John, by going on life-risking adventures. Sherlock, with crime solving and his god forsaken heroin. And myself, with my art.

It's funny, you wouldn't expect a lab rat like me to spend all her free time with a paintbrush in her hand. But maybe you wouldn't expect Sherlock, the clean, well-dressed genius to be rolled over in a heroin shack.

We're all artists in our own sort of way, crafting our lives to our own design. And Sherlock, the meticulous scientist of facts and figures and logistics, is the most beautiful artist I have ever known.

I've known it since I met him. Like I said, I can't tell what he had for breakfast, but I can see him- look into his eyes and see more than an icy blue-green. I could just tell, I could see beneath his forefront and knew he was making his life a work of art that was entirely his own- a consulting detective, the only one in the world. And I could see, somewhere swimming in those icy arises when he looked off in thought, an inner struggle. A loneliness created by isolation from being misunderstood, in a world that wasn't made for one as beautiful as him.

And maybe all I had was a cat and late night television. And maybe all he had was a skull and test tubes. But I've only now acquired a true hunger for another presence- I suppose up until now, I've convinced myself to be happy with loneliness. And now, I'm noticing how cold the lab is, how empty the flat is. And I just want a warmth, another presence to let me know I'm real, to let me know I'm safe. And I can't help but believe Sherlock wants nothing more or less as well.

The world may see a clean cut genius, with perfect cheekbones. And,okay, maybe I do too. But I can also see the frightened child inside- the one who believes he's not worthy of a friend. And I'd like to let him know he's more than the cold, meticulous, scientist. He's an artist worthy of warmth and comfort. Sometimes I see him, and he looks so sad, so afraid- and I want nothing more in the entire world than to let him know he's safe.

But it seems the more you must assure someone their safety, the more probable it's a lie. Images of him appeared- his childlike laugh, his lopsided grin, his piercing stare, his eyes that looked as though they had shed tears. And somehow I knew, this wasn't the end.

...

**Okay, so I hope that didn't sound like the regurgation of jumbled up ideas it was. New chapter up next week. Later.**


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